


Blue Morning, Blue Day

by Gemmiel



Series: Midnight Blue [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Destiel - Freeform, Goodbye Stranger, M/M, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmiel/pseuds/Gemmiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel attacks Dean in the crypt, his wings manifest in all their Heavenly glory. Will Dean ever be able to look at the angel's wings without fear again? Sequel to my story "The Azure World," partly based around "Goodbye Stranger."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Graphic violence.
> 
> I took some liberties with the crypt scene from "Goodbye Stranger."

Dean Winchester is afraid.

It’s not like he’s never been scared before. He spends his days and nights ganking evil sons of bitches, which means he finds himself in a battle for his life on a pretty regular basis. He’s come close to death scores of time, even died more than once. Fear is pretty much his constant companion, just as it is for every hunter. 

But in all his battle-scarred life, nothing has ever frightened him quite as much as Castiel, angel of the Lord.

Cas is his best friend, and recently became his lover. He and Cas have been working together, looking for the angel tablet that might be able to lock up Heaven's doors for good. But when they found it in a dark, dank crypt, Cas had seemed to decide it was his, and his alone, and when Dean had tried to keep Cas from fluttering away with it, Cas had—

Well, he’d gone darkside.

Now he’s beating the shit out of Dean in the shadowed crypt, and despite Dean’s sobs of pain and muttered pleas, he doesn’t seem inclined to stop. He’s no longer Cas, Dean's friend and lover, but Castiel, angel of the Lord.

And it’s fucking _terrifying._

Dean has a quick flashback to the night when he decided to agree to become Michael’s vessel. That night, Cas lost patience with him and beat the crap out of him in an alley. But that was a long time ago, and they’ve come a long way since then. Their relationship is a lot more equal now. Anyway, Cas had only been angry then—mad enough to hurt Dean, but certainly not mad enough to kill him.

But now Cas is more than merely angry. He's _murderous._ Dean sees the angel’s blade drop into his hand, sees the stone-cold look of righteous anger on Cas’ face, and ice runs through his veins.

This isn’t Cas, he thinks desperately. It’s _not._ He’d trust the angel with his life, and he knows, he _knows,_ that Cas would never pull a blade on him with deadly intent.

Except somewhere, very deep down, he’s not quite as sure of that as he wants to be.

“Cas,” he says urgently, backing away. “Cas, I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but if you're in there and you can hear me, you don't have to do this.”

Cas hits him with the fist holding the blade, and Dean does his best to block it with the tablet. Even so, the blow sends him reeling backward, into a wall. 

“Cas, fight this!” he yells. “This is not you! _Fight_ it!”

Cas strikes him again, and he slams into the stone wall again. The tablet takes some of the blow, but it’s not big enough to make an effective shield, and Cas is so much stronger than he is, a Heaven-forged weapon of God. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, echoing the thunder outside.

And then Cas turns from him, grabbing at his head, and shouts, “What have you done to me, Naomi?”

“Naomi?” Dean stares blankly, because no one else is here with them. It’s just him and Cas. “Who’s Naomi?”

For just a minute, he’s looking at Cas, his friend and lover, and he’s _worried_ about him, because Cas is clutching frantically at his head, his eyes wide and wild, looking like he’s in major distress. But then Cas’ hands drop away from his head, and he turns to look at Dean. There’s ice in his blue gaze, the emotionless expression of a seraph about to smite the unworthy, and Dean knows this isn’t Cas. It’s Castiel, angel of the Lord, and Dean is in very deep shit.

And then Cas’ wings manifest.

Dean can hear the ripping sound of fabric as they burst through Cas’ layers of clothing. They unfurl, flaring wide, far too impossibly massive for the human vessel that supports them. It’s so dark that Dean can’t see them properly, can’t see the beauty of them, the deep blue feathers striated with black and tipped with silver. All he can see is the power and the strength and the otherworldly glory of them. 

Last time he’d seen them, he’d touched them, played with them, until Cas whimpered beneath him, and then he’d made love to Cas while the great wings wrapped around him, holding him in an angelic embrace. He’d told Cas over and over how beautiful they were, caressed them endlessly, teased Cas by tugging on them and licking at them and stroking them until the angel writhed beneath him, helpless with ecstasy.

Lost in the passion of that night, he’d almost forgotten how fucking _scary_ they were.

He falls to his knees at the sight of those wings, unable to stop himself from groveling. He’s suddenly aware of how small and fragile and _human_ he is, how utterly worthless. He is nothing, nothing but a speck of dust eddying in the winds of the cosmos, cringing before something much greater and vaster than himself. 

Castiel strides toward him, an avenging angel bent on destruction, his wings spread out on either side of him. Flashes of lightning illuminate him as he approaches.

Dean is already on his knees, begging silently for mercy, but there is no mercy to be had. Cas strikes him across the face, harder than before. Dean can feel his flesh being torn and bruised by his best friend’s fist. It hurts, inside and out, and he whimpers pitifully. He tries to block the next blow, but Castiel catches his arm and breaks the bone casually, the way a human might snap a twig. Dean cries out in agony and drops the stone he's holding. The stone shatters as it strikes the floor, exposing the tablet within, but Dean hardly notices. His vision is hazy and red with pain. 

_Naomi._ The name that Cas spoke flutters through his mind, and he holds onto that random sliver of thought desperately. He doesn’t know who Naomi is, but he is certain she’s compelling Cas to do this somehow. Because this isn’t Cas. It can’t be Cas. He assures himself of that, over and over, as Castiel beats him. _This isn’t Cas. Can’t be Cas._

Cas doesn’t seem to remember the tablet's existence. He could just reach down and take the damn thing. It’s not like there’s anything Dean could do to stop him. But instead he’s beating Dean harder, almost mechanically, as if something else is controlling his blows. 

Dean has no hope of defending himself against a warrior of Heaven, but he raises a pleading hand anyway. “Cas...” he rasps out. “This isn't you. _This isn't you._ ”

Cas says nothing, just keeps whacking away at him. One of Dean's eyes is swollen shut now, and his vision in the other eye is blurred— _probably a concussion,_ the professional, detached part of his brain informs him-- but he can still see Cas looming over him, the dark wings spread wide, a blue, unearthly glow in his eyes. 

Dean hears himself whimpering Cas’ name over and over, a pitiful plea for mercy, but Cas doesn’t appear to hear it. He is entirely focused on his mission now, and his mission seems to be pounding Dean into a pulp. Dean forces out more words past split lips and broken teeth.

“I know you're in there,” he says, his voice hoarse with pain. Cas raises his angel blade, and Dean knows he’s about to die. He’s scared, but not just for himself. He’s scared of what this is going to do to Cas, once he comes out of whatever weird fugue state he’s in. He thinks of Cas's probable reaction to knowing he killed his best friend and his lover with his own weapon, the way he'll feel with the memory of Dean's bloodied face haunting him, and the thought gives him strength to keep talking through the pain.

“I know you can hear me. Cas…” His voice cracks, and he knows some of the moisture on his face isn’t blood, but tears. “It's me. It’s _me,_ Cas. It’s Dean. And… I _need_ you.”

Cas stands there for a long moment, the angel blade poised to strike, the awesome wings spread to their full span. There’s a distant expression on his face, like he’s listening to Dean, but maybe to something else as well. For a long moment, nothing happens except a flash of lightning and a low rumble of thunder.

And then suddenly the angel blade slips from Cas' hand and clatters to the stone floor. Dean falls back against the wall with a gasp.

Through his blurred vision, he can see Cas lean down to pick up the tablet. Golden light flares, and for an instant Dean can see the magnificent wings in their full glory, massive, terrifying. And then the light fades, and Cas reaches toward him.

Dean shies back, because the wings are still there, shadowed and ominous, and they scare him. _Cas_ scares him. 

“No,” he whimpers. “Cas… _Cas…_ ”

Cas’ hand extends toward him, and Dean tries feebly to protect himself, to block the next blow. But Cas’ hand touches the side of his head, very gently, and suddenly all the pain is gone. The bruises, the blood, the concussion, the broken arm, the shattered teeth, all washed away in an instant. Dean sags against the wall in profound relief.

There is a fluttering sound, and the wings are suddenly gone as well. Cas is himself again, a holy tax accountant in overlarge trench coat and crookedly knotted tie. Dean finds that he can rise. He gets slowly to his feet, still looking at Cas warily. Cas looks back at him, his eyes gentle and sane, and speaks in a low voice.

"I'm so _sorry,_ Dean."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of graphic violence.

His dreams are all pain, blow after blow landing on his face and head like the white-hot lashes of a whip, while he cringes helplessly, begging for mercy that will never come. In the shadows above him he sees great wings flapping, and he cries out in stark terror—

“Dean.”

A low, growling voice awakens him from the dark nightmare. He sits up with a jerk, scrambling back against the headboard as his heart thunders in panic. He’s alone in the motel room, because he’d left Sam, who is rapidly growing more and more ill from the trials, at home for this simple salt-and-burn hunt. Ordinarily he would have grabbed the knife from beneath his pillow and stabbed it at whatever is hiding in the dark, but he’s still tangled up in the clutches of his dream, and all he can do is back away and huddle against the headboard, trembling. The night still hangs thick and black around him, and the glowing numbers of the bedside clock inform him that it is 4:52 a.m.

“ _Dean,_ ” the voice repeats, more firmly. It’s a familiar rumble, but the familiarity isn’t as comforting as it once was. Dean stares into the darkness, but he sees nothing.

“Cas?” he whispers.

“I am here,” the voice says, “and yet not here. I am pursued by the heavenly host, and if I fully manifest here, they will very likely capture me. But I want to speak with you. Will you come with me?”

Dean’s heart pounds against his ribs. “Cas,” he begins, but the word comes out as a squawk. He clears his throat and starts over. “Cas, I know you said you were being controlled by Naomi, but...”

“I was,” the voice agrees. “But no longer. The connection has been broken, and I have regained my free will and all my lost memories, and…” There is a mournful note in the voice. “Dean, we _really_ need to talk.”

Dean remembers Cas slamming him against the wall, the angel blade glinting in the darkness of the crypt. He thinks about how it felt when Cas’ hand casually snapped his wrist, about the sensation of his two front teeth shattering from a blow of Cas’ fist. And he thinks about those wings, huge, midnight-blue, and terrifying.

He remembers touching those wings, remembers the intimacy of it, remembers Cas sobbing and whimpering and surrendering to him, and he swallows hard.

“Okay,” he says at last.

Something insubstantial touches his forehead, and the world spins. When it stops, he’s sitting in a grassy meadow, vivid blue sky overhead, a warm, summery breeze brushing his face. He blinks and ducks his head at the sudden brightness, his eyes watering. When he can see again, Cas is sitting next to him in the long grass.

“Cas,” he says, resisting the urge to back away. _It wasn’t Cas in the crypt, not really,_ he reminds himself. _It wasn’t him._ “Where the fuck are we?”

“Nowhere,” Cas says, stretching out his legs and lifting his face to the sun. 

“Cut the crap. Obviously we’re somewhere.”

“No.” Cas closes his eyes, basking in the sun like a big cat. It’s such un-Caslike behavior that Dean stares at him. Or maybe it’s just that he hasn’t seen Cas in a week, and his surprise is a good excuse to stare, so that he can take in the familiar jut of Cas’ jaw, the straight line of his nose, the rumpled dark hair…

He is still attracted to Cas, and yet being this close to the angel makes something uncomfortably like terror settle like ice in his stomach. He looks away, and gazes in curiosity at their surroundings. It feels like midmorning, and the two of them are seated on a grassy knoll, looking down over a broad grassland. Scattered across the meadow are spotted brown deer grazing, and in the distance he can see the green blur of a forest and the silver-blue glint of a river. “Pretty place,” he remarks.

“I told you, it’s not a place.” Cas slits open one eye and glares at him with the irritation he often displays toward mortals who can’t comprehend what to him is obvious. “It is an extratemporal, noncorporeal projection.”

The phrase might as well be Greek to Dean, but he catches onto part of it: _temporal._ “So… like time travel?”

“Not even remotely like time travel. This is not a time, either. It is…” Cas huffs slightly, a sound of annoyance. “I suppose you could think of it as a bubble outside of reality.”

Cas is clearly determined to keep the angel tablet well hidden. “Sounds like a neat trick.”

The blue eye flutters shut, and Cas goes back to basking. “It is a simple matter of manipulating quantum spaces. Much easier than time travel.”

Uh-huh. Sure. Once again, Dean is acutely aware of his own inferiority. He is nothing next to Cas. Hell, Albert freakin’ Einstein would be a moron next to the dullest angel. Why does Cas hang out with him, let alone sleep with him? Does he just get a kick out of slumming, or what?

“So the other angels can’t catch you here?”

“Oh, they can catch me.” Cas tilts his head back further, leaning his weight back on his arms and looking drowsily contented, and Dean can’t help staring at the long, tanned stretch of his throat. Goddamnit. “Fortunately, angels are not terribly creative, and they haven’t caught on to this particular trick yet. But sooner or later, they’ll figure it out, and I’ll need to come up with something new. For now, however, this place is safe.”

“Okay,” Dean says uncertainly. He’s wearing an old, threadbare Metallica shirt and a pair of sweatpants, an outfit which was good enough for bed, but which looks pretty damn tattered in the bright sunlight. He knows his hair is standing up all over his head, because it always does when he sleeps, and his morning breath could probably drop a rhino at forty paces. He looks like a scruffy, tired human with dark circles under his eyes and epic bedhead, whereas Castiel looks precisely the same as he always does.

Not for the first time, he wonders what Cas really looks like. The blue-eyed, dark-haired Cas he knows is just a vessel, who presumably bears no resemblance to the angel himself. Unfortunately, Dean can’t see Cas’ true form without burning out his eyeballs, and he knows that if he asks for detail on what the real Cas looks like, Cas will just give him an annoying song and dance about celestial wavelengths or quantum realities or planes of existence or whatever. He will never see the true Castiel, never fully understand what the angel really is.

And yet strangely, he feels that he knows Cas better than he's ever known anyone.

“So,” he says, cautiously. He's curious as to the whereabouts of the angel tablet, but he is reasonably certain that is not what Cas has brought him here to discuss. “You wanted to talk.”

He’s still watching Cas, and so he notices a slight tension in Cas’ body. The angel no longer looks like he's basking in the warmth, but like he's anticipating an unpleasant confrontation. The blue eyes flutter open, and Cas glances sideways at him with a guilty expression. All the pleasure he seems to have taken in the blue morning fades, and his spine stiffens. He looks decidedly unhappy.

“I told you," he says slowly, "that I now remember everything that has happened since I was pulled from Purgatory."

“Yeah?”

“Yes, and there are some things I should explain. Samandriel, for one…” He looks miserable. “Naomi compelled me to kill him.”

“Yeah. I kind of figured that out.”

“But I didn’t _know_.” Cas looks more wretched than before. “It’s difficult to explain, Dean, but what Naomi did to me-- it was as if I were in two places at once. On Earth, and in Naomi’s… well, I suppose you could call it an office. She could call me to her office at will, but the moment I left Heaven, I instantly forgot all my knowledge of her. Every time.”

“Bitch,” Dean growls. “So you killed Samandriel and didn’t know why?”

“Not only that. I didn’t even make a conscious decision to kill him. It was as if Naomi somehow hacked into my operating system and twisted me in ways that forced me to do things—terrible things that I would otherwise never do-- against my will.”

Dean isn’t sure he likes Cas referring to his _operating system,_ as if angels were machines instead of people. Cas isn’t a machine, damn it. He frowns. “So she brainwashed you.”

“Brainwashing,” the angel says primly, “is an inaccurate and emotionally loaded term that inadequately describes the systematic reprogramming of—"

“ _Cas._ ”

“Yes. All right. I suppose you could say she brainwashed me.”

“Okay. Not your fault, then. Don’t worry about it.”

Cas pulls up his knees and wraps his arms around them, resting his chin on them. It’s a posture of grief and despair, so damn human that Dean feels his heart twist. Cas seems to be making major strides toward humanity, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s because Naomi fucked around with his brain. Maybe in trying to brainwash him, she inadvertently unlocked something inside him, something less detached and more emotional. Or maybe he’s been moving toward humanity ever since Purgatory, but it just wasn’t as obvious while Naomi was screwing around in his head.

“I can’t help worrying,” Cas says softly. He is staring into the distance, very carefully not looking at Dean. “I hurt you, Dean. I hurt you terribly. I can’t stop remembering—"

“Yeah, I know.” Dean cuts him off deliberately, because he really doesn’t want to hear Cas detail what he remembers. What memory bothers Cas the most? he wonders. The sound of Dean's wrist bones crunching, the way he whimpered Cas' name in pain and fear, the coppery scent of his blood? Regardless, he honestly doesn’t want to hear about it. Every detail of that night is burned into his brain, far too clearly for comfort. The icy fear twists in his stomach again, and he finds himself looking away, too.

Cas is silent for a long moment. At last he says, very softly, “It wasn’t just in the crypt.”

Dean turns his head and stares at him. “Say what?”

“It wasn’t…” Cas sighs, and buries his face in his arms. He looks just like a human, Dean thinks, and remembers Cas’ voice, soft and introspective: _I think I fell a long time ago._ God. How long has Cas been becoming this person, who feels and hurts and aches the exact same way humans do? He thinks wryly that what Cas calls _falling,_ he calls _growing_. “I remember,” he says at last, his voice muffled. “I remember killing you so many times, Dean.”

Dean feels icy fear shiver down his spine, tries to cover it with his usual snark. “Must’ve done a piss-poor job of it, man. I’m still here.”

“It was practice,” Cas bursts out, lifting his head and staring at Dean. His eyes are wide with pain and self-loathing. “There were these… _facsimiles_ of you. No one else, just you. Just _you,_ Dean. She made me slaughter you over and over and over. I killed you with my bare hands, with my blade—I felt your neck snap under my hands, felt your ribs give way beneath my feet as I kicked you, felt your skull stave in as I crushed it. I heard you screaming, begging for mercy, weeping, and I still couldn’t stop. I kept killing you and killing you and _killing you…_ ”

The angel’s voice is rising toward hysteria. Despite his shock, both at the angel’s words and his startling display of emotion, Dean reaches out a hand, dropping it onto Cas’ shoulder, as heavy and comforting as he can make it.

“That wasn’t really me,” he says softly.

“But it _was_ really me.” Cas’ voice wobbles. “She made me kill you, Dean, so many times. I didn't want to, but I did it. And now it’s all burned into my brain. I can’t forget a single moment of it. I wish to God I could, but I can't.”

Dean pulls back his hand, because touching Cas makes him uncomfortable. The realization distresses him, but he can't help the feeling of dread curling in the pit of his stomach at the feel of Cas' shoulder beneath his palm. “She made you do it, Cas. You’d never have hurt me otherwise.”

Cas lifts his head and stretches out his arms, looking at his own hands with as much revulsion as if they were dripping with blood. “These hands killed you,” he says softly. “I remember now, Dean. I can’t forget. And even if that wasn’t real, what happened in the crypt was. The way you looked at me—the way you tried to get away—"

“It’s okay, man. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it’s not okay.” Cas looks haunted, miserable, and Dean could swear he sees the angel's lower lip quiver. “You are afraid of me now, Dean. We both know it. You are afraid of me… and my wings.”

Dean bristles slightly, because there's no way Cas could know that unless... “You been walking around in my dreams, Cas?”

“Not intentionally.” Cas heaves a shuddering sigh. “But when the images from your dreams are so powerful, you can hardly expect me not to see glimpses of them. You dream, Dean. Every night, you dream of my wings. Before, you found the thought of them appealing. But now… you find them terrifying.”

“I’m sorry, dude.” Dean speaks roughly. “I know it’s irrational. But in the crypt, they were—"

“Visible. I know. I’m sorry.” Cas lowers his head again, hiding his face, and speaks in a harsh whisper. "And now you are afraid of me."

Dean remembers Cas' reaction when he hadn't fallen to his knees at sight of his wings. _You are not afraid of me. Even with my wings… you are not afraid of me._ It had obviously meant a lot to Cas that Dean trusted him, that Dean wasn't frightened of his more otherworldly aspects.

And Naomi, damn her to hell, had taken that away from them both. 

Because he _is_ afraid of Cas now. He can't deny it. He desperately wishes he weren't, because Cas has been his best friend for a very long time, but he can't help it. Naomi has managed to shatter the profound trust between them, and just being around Cas makes his heart pound and his throat tighten with fear. And the idea of seeing Cas' wings again is even worse. Just the thought makes him want to turn tail and run like a whipped dog.

And maybe, he thinks, looking at Cas' downbent head, Cas is afraid of him too, in a way. Afraid of hurting him, afraid of the terrible fragility of Dean's human body, afraid of what his hands can do to a mere human. Afraid of the memories that rise up every time he looks at Dean. Dean doesn't have to get a glimpse of the angel's dreams to know the memories of what happened in the crypt are tearing him up inside. It's more than obvious from the pain welling in his blue eyes, the way he's curled up around himself.

Part of him wants to reach out to Cas, to wrap his arms around his shoulders, to kiss him and hold him and touch him until the shadows are gone from the blue eyes. 

But he remembers the wings, and pulls away instead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I suck at projecting story length. I've decided this one will be four or five chapters long, rather than the three I originally guessed.

A long and uncomfortable silence falls. The place-that-isn't, Dean notes, is unnaturally quiet. He can't hear the buzz of insects or the song of birds or the cry of distant animals. All he can hear is the soft sound of grass rustling in the breeze. 

At last Cas heaves a sigh.

“I suppose I should get you back,” he mutters, lifting his head and glancing hesitantly at Dean. “I just wanted to speak to you—to explain what happened—"

“Yeah.” A part of Dean, a _large_ part, is relieved at the thought of leaving. Being around Cas makes him nervous. No, if he's going to be honest about it, it scares the shit out of him. He’s not proud of his own cowardice, or of the fact that he can’t stop blaming his friend for something Cas didn’t do voluntarily, but he can’t help his reactions, either. 

Fear doesn’t listen to logic or reason or even friendship. It’s visceral and instinctive, and right now it’s twisting painfully in his gut, telling him that getting the hell out of here, getting the hell away from _Cas,_ is the smart thing to do.

Cas sighs again, his eyes dark with sorrow. He reaches toward Dean’s forehead.

Dean jerks backward.

Cas yanks his hand back like he’s been burned. “I’m sorry, Dean." His eyes grow darker than before. "I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I wasn’t scared. You just startled me.” And yeah, that's a complete and total lie, because in his head, he can't stop flinching away from the memory of Cas' hands hurting him, over and over again. He remembers Cas beating him, his fists slamming into Dean’s face, snapping Dean’s wrist…

Cas isn't fooled by Dean's false bravado. He buries his face in his hands again and speaks in a muffled voice. “As I said before, I am truly sorry for what I put you through. There is nothing I can do to change what I did to you that night. I wish there were, but...”

“I know.” Dean is sorry for his instinctive movement backward, but it’s not like he could help it. “I wish I could forget, Cas. But I can’t.”

Cas lifts his head and looks at him. Dean is shocked to see that his eyes are wet. He’s not crying, exactly, but he’s damn close. But there is a glint of hope in his eyes as well.

“You wish you could forget,” he echoes softly. “That I can do. If you really would like that, Dean... I can take the memory away from you.”

“Oh, yeah?” 

"Yes. It would be a very simple thing to accomplish."

Just the thought makes the heavy weight inside Dean's chest lighten. If he never has to look at Cas again and remember the mingled pain and terror of that night, the feeling of Cas’ fists slamming into him, the terrifying flare of his wings, it would make things so much easier. If he could look at Cas and only remember the good stuff-- their friendship, the way Cas writhed beneath him as they made love that night, the faint curve of Cas' smile, the midnight blue of his eyes… He looks into those eyes, and the burgeoning lightness goes leaden again. “But what about you?”

“Me?” Cas looks blank for a moment, then seems to understand. “Oh. I cannot take away my own memories of the event, or forget the facsimiles of you I slaughtered. It is impossible for me to forget of my own accord.”

“So you’d remember, but I wouldn’t.” Dean thinks about that for a moment, then shakes his head and speaks in a grim voice. “No, Cas. If you have to deal with all that shit, then so do I.”

“But you are afraid of me, Dean." Cas' voice is imploring. "I would feel much better if you would allow me to take the memory away.”

“Maybe you would, but it’s not fair, Cas. You’ll still remember what happened, every time you look at me, and you’d get that look in your eyes, but I wouldn’t have a clue what you were thinking about, and… no. It’s just another lie. We’ve done that enough, damn it.”

Cas says nothing, only gazes at him, his eyes sorrowful, _desolate,_ and Dean suddenly remembers a line from the poem the angel had quoted after they’d made love the first time. _Close to the sun in lonely lands._ Yeah, this extratemporal, noncorporeal world of Cas' is a lonely land, all right. Beautiful but empty, not even a real place at all. Which means nothing here is real. The pretty little spotted deer, the grass rustling in the wind, the sun shining down on them, the brilliant sapphire sky above... none of it is real.

But _he’s_ real. And so is Cas. 

He remembers Cas basking in the sunlight, his head back, his eyes closed, and thinks how sad it would be if Cas had to hide here from the heavenly host for the rest of his existence, if he could never feel real sunlight on his face again. Pretty as it is, this place is pretend, and pretend just isn’t enough.

Which is why he can’t let Cas take his memories away. That’d be pretend, too. Just because he doesn’t remember it doesn’t mean it never happened. With a pang, he recalls Lisa and Ben. He’d had Cas take their memories of him away, and in retrospect he’s pretty sure that was the wrong thing to do. Because despite everything they’d gone through because of him, all the pain he'd caused them, he’d _mattered_ to them. So by ripping himself out of their memories, he’d changed the people they were. Maybe a little, maybe a lot. He isn't sure, but he does know for certain they weren’t quite the same people they’d been before.

And what Cas had done to him, under Naomi’s control—well, he can't see it as a good thing, that's for sure. Having the shit beaten out of you is never going to be something you’d _want_ to suffer through. But painful and horrible as it had been, it's part of their long shared history, part of what defines their relationship. It's something he and Cas went through _together,_ and so they're going to have to muddle through the aftermath together too. 

Because the way you deal with shit is to actually _deal_ with it, not to erase it like a fucking videotape. 

Cas lowers his gaze and speaks, very softly. “I only want you to be happy, Dean.”

That’s what Dean wants, too. For Cas to be happy. And he doesn’t think Cas can ever be really happy if he’s carrying around the knowledge of what he did to Dean in a dark crypt one night, and the memory of what it felt like to kill his best friend over and over again, while he has to hide that knowledge from Dean. Remembering it, but never being able to talk about it, is just going to make Cas feel more guilty and miserable than ever.

Dean knows what secrets do to your soul, and he knows they don’t make you happy, not ever. They just isolate you.

“We’re gonna get past this, Cas.” Dean speaks softly, but firmly. He’s still scared shitless, but that's not an unfamiliar feeling, and he can cope with it. He’s dealt with fear before, after all, and he knows fear can't take over your life unless you let it. And he's damn well not going to let it. Cas means too damn much to him. “The two of us together. We’re gonna get past it. I promise.”

His hand, he discovers, is trembling, but he manages to reach out anyway.

He takes Cas’ hand in his own.


	4. Chapter 4

_I need you._

Dean remembers the sound of his own voice, raspy and harsh and desperate, croaking out those words. And damn it, he didn’t utter them just to stop Cas from squashing him like a bug. 

No, he said them because they were _true._

He needs Cas like he needs air and food and Led Zeppelin and his Impala, damn it. _He needs Cas._ And right now he really, really wishes that weren’t the case, wishes he didn’t care so damn much about his angel, because running away and never seeing Cas again would be so much easier than facing his fears and getting past this.

He doesn’t _want_ to need anyone this much. He’s used to being alone, with only Sammy to care for, and needing someone outside of the little Winchester family unit, needing someone so badly, really scares the hell out of him.

For the first time, he lets himself wonder if it was really that night in the crypt that scares him, or if it’s just the way he feels about Cas, the awareness that he needs Cas so intensely, that sends him into a panic every time he looked at the angel. Or maybe it's both, because he's had the shit beaten out of him before, more than once, and he knows he wouldn't have been so freaked out if it had been anyone else. It's the fact that it was _Cas_. His friend, his lover. His angel.

What's at the root of his fear doesn’t really matter, he decides at last, still holding Cas’ warm hand in his. Because fear is fear, and no matter what’s scaring him (and Dean has never been one to psychoanalyze himself too much—that’s Sammy’s thing, not his), the fact remains that just touching Cas, just holding his hand, makes him want to piss his pants with terror. And that is not a tolerable situation, not when Cas means so much to him.

He has exactly two options here—run away and never see Cas again, or get the hell over his stupid fear. And the first option is not something he can bear to contemplate.

So he’s gonna get _over_ it, damn it.

He holds Cas’ hand, quietly, unmoving, trying to enjoy the not-sunshine beating down on them both, the not-breeze brushing over their faces. He can't seem to focus on anything but the feel of Cas' hand in his, though, and his heart pounds like a bass drum in his chest. He's terrified, but he does his best to ignore it. 

Cas sends a sideways glance at him from beneath dark lashes, like he can’t quite understand what the hell Dean is doing, but he looks like he’s afraid of scaring Dean by moving, so he just sits there, very quietly, allowing Dean to hold his hand.

At last Dean’s heart slows down a little. Fight or flight responses don’t last forever. He knows that. The body can’t remain at full alert forever, and sooner or later, the sharp edge of panic fades, to be replaced by wariness. He’s not exactly calm now, but he’s not all keyed up and ready to flee for his life, either.

Fear, he thinks, can be overcome. It just takes patience and a little willpower. Cautiously, he lets his thumb brush over the back of Cas’ hand.

His heartbeat jumps up again, but he ignores it, and continues gently brushing Cas’ hand with his thumb. This, he assures himself, isn’t scary. All he’s doing is touching Cas a little, in an almost platonic way. There's nothing frightening about this.

His stupid, freaked-out subconscious isn’t totally convinced, but Cas is smart enough to refrain from making any sudden moves—or any moves at all, really. He’s not touching Dean back. He’s just sitting there, gazing down at the movement of Dean’s thumb with a rapt expression on his face.

The way he looks, the warmth in his eyes— _God._ Cas looks like a man who's been wandering lost in a desert, thinking he’d never get a drink of water again, who's now drinking deeply from a cool stream. Like the gentle touch of Dean's thumb is the best thing that's ever happened in all his millennia of life, the high point of his existence. Like Dean is all he ever wanted.

If Dean ever wondered whether Cas needs him too, the look on Cas’ face burns away any doubt. 

His throat feels tight, not with fear, but with emotion, and he swallows hard. Then he lets his thumb move a little further, stroking the back of Cas’ hand from wrist to fingers, and Cas shivers, just a little.

The slight reaction is enough to make his stupid body hit the panic button again. He freezes up, breathing heavily, his heart thudding. And all of a sudden he’s back in a dark crypt, Cas looming over him, emotionless, stonily indifferent to the pain he's inflicting, his fists beating Dean, his wings flaring wide, so fucking _terrifying_ …

Gasping for breath, Dean forces himself to look around. He’s not in a crypt, goddamn it. He’s in a lonely azure world, sharing a beautiful blue morning with Cas. There is no immediate danger, no threat. He's perfectly safe.

But his body isn’t convinced. 

Damn it, he thinks impatiently, he’s not going to get over this by being slow and methodical about it. He knows from his years of hunting that you have to face the things that scare you head-on, or you'll be ruined as a hunter forever.

He loosens his grip on Cas’ hand, lets his thumb trail along the inside of Cas’ wrist, and Cas gives a startled noise, a gasping moan, and whispers his name like a prayer, soft and reverent.

“Cas,” he says, very softly. “Take off your clothes.”

Cas’ eyes go wide. “Dean…”

“I mean it. Your coat, your tie, your shirt. Take them off.”

Cas looks nonplussed, bewildered, but he removes them all methodically, the human way—probably figuring that a display of his mojo might freak Dean the hell out, and he’s likely right about that—and tossing them into an untidy heap in the grass. He sits there bare-chested, looking supremely uncomfortable, which doesn’t surprise Dean all that much. He doubts angels have any natural body modesty—fuck, he’s not even sure they have _bodies_ —but Cas has been wearing this vessel for a long time now, and it’s hardly surprising that he might have internalized some human feelings about nudity. Cas wears his clothes and his coat all the time, whether it's the height of summer or the dead of winter, and being partially naked probably makes him feel as vulnerable and exposed as it does humans.

Undressed, he certainly looks vulnerable. His skin is darker than Dean’s freckled hide, but not by much, and he looks pale and almost fragile in the bright sunlight. It’s easy to forget that he’s an incredibly powerful supernatural being. He looks just like… a guy. A really beautiful guy.

Dean's heart thunders, and he isn't sure if it's fear or lust. He thinks it's probably both. He wants to touch Cas, and he wants to run away. He wants to kiss all that bare, exposed skin at the same moment he wants to leap to his feet and flee for his life. Competing impulses battle inside him, threatening to rip him apart. He closes his eyes for a moment, getting his nerve up, then opens them.

“Show me your wings,” he says.


	5. Chapter 5

“Dean…”

Dean doesn’t want to argue, because he knows if he lets himself get dragged into a discussion, he’s just going to discuss himself right out of this. “Just do it,” he snaps.

His voice must sound angry, commanding, because Cas’ eyes flash blue and his chin lifts. He looks for an instant like the warrior of Heaven who resents being pushed around by a small and insignificant human. His spine straightens, his shoulders square, and his wings unfurl into existence with a rush of wind and a fluttering of feathers.

Instantly, Dean is flooded with too many conflicting emotions. Panic, because the wings looked this way that night in the crypt. Lust, because he’s had a thing for Cas’ wings forever, even before he ever saw them, and he can’t forget the sound of Cas whimpering and begging for an orgasm as his hand explored the warm, quivering wings, can’t forget the scent of sandalwood and vanilla as he stroked oil through Cas’ feathers. And the normal human response to wings, which is obeisance. He wants to bow his head, maybe to flatten himself on the ground at Cas’ feet, because he knows he’s in the presence of an angel, and he is nothing, nothing at all…

Hunger and fear and the desire to grovel coil together in his chest until he can barely breathe. He refuses to run, refuses to bow his head, and instead he looks steadily at the wings, taking in their otherworldly beauty. They are deep blue, barred with black, tipped with silvery white. Blue jay wings, but so much bigger and more beautiful than any bird’s wings ever were. He focuses on their beauty, their magnificence, and slowly his fear fades. It's not gone, but it's manageable. Almost, anyway.

He becomes aware his hands are clenched into fists. Consciously, he unclenches them, and reaches toward Cas’ wings.

Cas shies back. “Dean!”

“It’s all right,” Dean says soothingly, and then is startled to realize that _he_ needs to soothe _Cas._ Well, that really shouldn't be a surprise. Cas, he recognizes, looking into the wide blue eyes, is just as freaked out as he is. Somewhere deep in his mind, he’s trapped in that dark crypt too, remembering everything he did to Dean, over and over again. And even worse, he’s remembering things Dean never actually experienced, remembering butchering a thousand pretend Deans in various horrible ways. Of course he’s freaking out. 

They _both_ need to get past this.

Dean reaches out for the wing nearest him. In the sunlight, Cas’ wings are more beautiful than ever. They gleam in a way blue jay wings don’t, scintillating in the sunlight, throwing off glints of every shade of blue imaginable. The black barring is impossibly dark, the pure, deep ebony of space, and Dean thinks if he looks hard enough he might just be able to see stars embedded there. 

Hesitantly, he lets his fingers stroke across the front of the wing. Cas trembles, and a sound like a strangled moan emerges from him, like he’s trying to hold back his vocal responses but just can’t. 

Dean is aware that he’s trembling too. He’s scared, and part of him wants to run away, but it’s drowned out by the part of him that has an overwhelming, inappropriate fascination with Cas’ wings. Cas’ feathers are so warm and soft, and they feel so good beneath his hand…

Cas draws a shuddering sigh, and his eyes flutter shut. His wings flex and stir a bit, as if in response to Dean’s touch. Dean can smell sandalwood and vanilla, the scent borne to him on the warm breeze, and he knows that the little oil glands at the base of Cas’ wings are already beginning to drip thick, viscous fluid. Before long the oil will be running freely down Cas’ back, making his skin slick…

Dean is amazed to discover he’s half-hard despite his fear. It’s the scent of Cas’ oil, he thinks. He associates that particular odor with a night of tremendous passion and ecstasy, so naturally it has that effect on him. But it’s also the sheer beauty of the wings, and…

Well, Cas himself.

Dean knows he’s had a thing for Cas for a long time now. He’s not quite sure when it started, when he started thinking of Cas that way. At first he’d been both irritated by Cas, and more than a little scared of him. But eventually his first impressions had faded into a kind of bemused affection. He’d discovered that the sound of fluttering wings that presaged Cas’ arrival always made him smile, and so did Cas’ fumbling attempts to develop “people skills.” Eventually he’d started calling Cas his friend, but even then he’d been aware that Cas was so much more.

But through it all, he’s always been aware that Cas is… well, hot. He knows that what he sees is Jimmy Novak, not the real Cas, and Jimmy was a very pretty boy. And yet Dean recalls that when he met the real Jimmy, he hardly noticed him, physically. It’s not just the blue eyes and the rumpled dark hair and the square jaw he finds attractive. It’s something about the way Cas animates his vessel--the glint in his eyes, his deep, gravelly voice, the way he moves--that makes Dean sit up and take notice. He can’t quite define what he finds attractive about Cas, but it’s both physical and more than physical. It’s both base and spiritual.

He strokes his hand down the feathers again, and watches as Cas’ face contorts in almost orgasmic pleasure. Yeah, he thinks. Cas is very hot.

His heart is still pounding heavily in his chest, but the fear’s all tangled up with lust now. He’s not sure how far he dares to take this, though. The thought of being naked with Cas—of touching Cas the way he did last time—

Well, it scares the hell out of him.

 _One step at a time,_ he tells himself, and goes on caressing Cas’ wing, tugging lightly at the feathers. Cas drops his head back, and he’s groaning openly now, not even trying to suppress it. Cas’ openness and vulnerability makes Dean feel a little more confident. He’s still got all his clothes on, and Cas is the one who’s half-naked. This gives Dean a slight feeling of power that helps him keep going.

Cas’ throat is exposed, and it’s too damn tempting to resist. Dean leans forward and brushes his lips over the sensitive skin, just below Cas’ jaw. Stubble rasps his lips, but he doesn’t mind. His mouth trails down, along Cas’ throat, down his chest, until he’s kissing Cas’ nipple. Cas makes an agonized sound of pleasure, and Dean nips at it, biting softly. 

The wings beat against the air, and Dean jerks back, his heart in his throat.

“I’m sorry.” Cas’ voice is deeper than ever, more gravelly. “I didn’t mean to—couldn’t help it—"

“It’s okay.” Dean notices his own voice is shaking, and he tries very hard to steady it. “I’m fine. I just…”

“This is too much to expect of you.” Cas’ voice is laced with sorrow and pain. “I knew it would be.”

“No. It’s fine.” Dean lifts his head to find that the wings have been partially folded, and he glares at Cas. “Don’t put those away, damn it. _Don’t._ ”

“But you are—"

“Scared. Yeah, I am. And I’m not gonna get any less scared by running and hiding from them.” He speaks with all the sincerity he can muster, holding his voice steady with a massive effort of will. “Your wings are part of you, Cas. And you’re part of my life. I don’t ever want that to change.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still not the final chapter, because I'm hopelessly long-winded. Sooner or later, there will actually be a final chapter, with actual wing-kink smut. I promise.

_No mortal has ever touched my wings._

Scared though he is, Dean remembers those words, hangs onto them with everything he has. Cas trusts him more than he’s ever trusted any human, to the point that he allowed Dean to touch the earthly manifestation of his heavenly grace. An angel’s wings, Dean knows, are there to intimidate humans, not to be touched by them. Most angels think of humans as inferior, smelly creatures, and they would never think of allowing a human's filthy hands to touch their grace. 

And yet Cas had trusted him enough to allow him to stroke the great blue wings, to kiss them, to tug on them. And then he’d allowed Dean to make love to him, permitted Dean to touch him any way he wanted. Castiel, warrior of the Lord, an ancient and enormously powerful celestial being, had submitted to Dean entirely.

He remembers Cas beneath him, sobbing and gasping for breath as Dean fucked him. Cas had given himself over to Dean completely, in every way imaginable. He’d trusted him with everything he had, everything he was.

Despite everything that’s gone down between them since then, Dean figures he owes Cas that same sort of trust. 

Pushing away the anxiety that gnaws at the back of his brain, he leans forward and presses his lips to Cas’ mouth, hoping angels don’t mind morning breath too much. Cas doesn’t draw away. He jolts slightly, whether in surprise or lust Dean can’t be certain, and then he responds, kissing Dean very lightly, almost chastely, but with great sincerity.

Dean lifts his hands, despite the fear clamoring inside him, and strokes them through Cas’ dark hair, then settles his arms around Cas’ neck and holds him tightly. He feels Cas’ arms wrap around his waist, very, very cautiously. 

He’s still scared, but it’s manageable. He keeps reminding himself that across all the millennia Cas has been alive, the only person he's ever allowed to touch his wings is Dean, and that helps. 

If Cas can trust him to that extent, then he can trust Cas in return. He _can,_ damn it.

They share gentle kisses for long moments. At some point their mouths open, and their tongues touch, cautiously at first, then with more intensity. Dean’s arms are still locked around Cas’ neck, but he forces himself to move his hands a little, and strokes the heavy bones at the top of Cas’ wings, covered in the small, downy feathers which he knows (thanks to the research he's done since he developed his obsession with wings) are called coverts. 

Cas moans into his mouth, but his wings don’t beat this time. They don't even quiver. Dean suspects he is struggling to restrain himself, forcing his wings to stillness, for fear of frightening Dean again. Dean’s hand strokes along the wing, and memories assail him. Cas beneath him, crying out in pleasure as scented oil runs down his back. Cas standing over him, his expression remote, striking him with brutal, uncaring blows.

And a blue jay feather in the forest, shining brightly in a patch of sunlight.

Random though it is, that last memory somehow helps calm his fears a bit. He pulls back from Cas just a bit, and opens his eyes, looking at the deep blue wings as he touches them.

“Cas,” he says, very softly. “One time when I was little, Sammy and I got lost in the forest—separated from Dad—and I found a feather just like this—"

Cas’ eyelashes flutter, and he opens his eyes too, though he appears to find it difficult to do so. “Your mother told you the truth when you were small, Dean,” he says in his deep voice. “Angels have always been watching over you.”

Dean's heart clenches. “Were you my guardian angel, Cas? Because the feather I found…”

“That was indeed my feather,” Cas says softly. “You and Sam were badly lost that day, and the feather simply led you in the correct direction, back toward your father. Without it you might very well have been killed by the monster lurking in those woods.”

“So when I was a kid... you were always there? You've really been watching me that long?”

Cas sighs, sounding mildly impatient, as if he is a professor and Dean is his slowest student. “Not precisely. I was only there when you truly needed me. I sincerely wish that I could have done more for you-- saved your mother, protected you from John’s rages, fed you when John forgot to provide enough food, given your life more stability-- but I was… constrained."

"But you were _there._ "

"Yes, although I suspect you are conceptualizing that in a very human, linear fashion. The first time I ever met you was in that barn, on the night you and Bobby summoned me. And yet I watched over you, all through your childhood.”

“Time travel?”

“In a manner of speaking. Time is not the unidirectional, unchanging flow most humans believe it to be. There are… currents. Whirlpools. Eddies. It is not that difficult to ride the eddies back and forth, if you know how.”

“Clear as mud,” Dean mutters. He lets his hand close around the upper part of Cas’ wing. “But the point is, that was your feather I found, back when I was a little kid. It really was.”

“Yes, Dean. It really was.”

Dean tries to remember that day. In retrospect, he thinks, he should have realized it was more than a bird feather. It had shone so blue that he’d noticed it even in the dark-shadowed woods, and it was so pretty that he'd felt almost compelled to walk toward it. And the moment he picked it up, he’d suddenly realized he and Sammy had gotten turned around and were heading in the wrong direction, and he’d taken Sammy’s hand, filled with new confidence, and led him back toward where Dad was…

He blows out his breath in a sigh. The wings suddenly seem far less frightening to him. He’d been maybe ten that day, totally terrified both for himself and for his little brother, and if it weren’t for Cas, he and Sammy probably would have kept wandering in those woods, hopelessly lost, till the monster got them. Cas had saved him.

Cas’ _wings_ had saved him.

He reminds himself that Cas and his wings are all one. He has grown accustomed to seeing Cas in holy tax accountant mode, wearing Jimmy Novak's very human body, and the wings are usually tucked away into whatever fourth-dimensional closet Cas keeps them in. So he naturally thinks of the wings as something separate, something alien. But the truth is, they're no more alien than Cas himself is. They’re an integral part of the angel, a far truer representation of his real self than this vessel is.

Cas is alien, a different species, a much greater species, and yet he's woven into the fabric of Dean's life, in a way a human can't really understand. The knowledge that Cas has always been there for him touches him at the same time it awes him. Cas is so many things to him—friend, lover, protector. Cas has always mattered to him, and that will never change. Cas is woven throughout his past and his present, and Dean can’t imagine his future without him, either.

He allows himself to respond a little to the awe that the wings inspire, and bows his head.

“Cas,” he says, very softly, “I want you to make love to me.”

Cas blinks at him, the blue eyes shocked. “Do you mean…” he says hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “This time, I want you to be on top.”


	7. Chapter 7

Cas is still tentative, cautious, like he’s afraid any move he makes will send Dean into a panic. And maybe he’s right… but maybe not. Because Dean can’t think of the wings as a symbol of pain and terror any more, not really. 

The wings are part of Cas, and Cas is always there for him. Always.

Cas leans forward, pressing his mouth softly to Dean’s, and Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ neck, more sincerely this time, and pulls the angel over on top of him. Cas is half bare, and Dean finds himself kissing anything he can reach—the gentle curve of Cas’ throat, the sharp angles of his jaw, the jut of his collarbone. His hands dig into the wings, holding tightly. It's hard at first, because every brush of his hands against the soft feathers, every touch of his lips against Cas' skin, sends a bolt of fear through him, but he refuses to stop. Before long the fear fades away, to be replaced by a warm hum of pleasure deep inside him.

Cas moans, burying his face against Dean’s shoulder. “Dean,” he mutters. The word is muffled by the worn fabric of the Metallica shirt, but there's no mistaking the longing and the need and the stark adoration in it. “ _Dean._ ”

Dean doesn’t say anything at all. He can’t, because there’s a tightness in his throat, and he doesn’t think it's fear making a reappearance . Fear doesn’t make his eyes sting like this, or make his stomach clench with anticipation. He moves his hands more boldly, stroking Cas’ rumpled dark hair, his midnight blue feathers, the warm, pliant flesh of his shoulders. 

Cas groans and stirs against him, like he’s trying really, really hard not to respond the way he wants to. Dean can smell sandalwood and vanilla, though, and he knows Cas is turned on, no matter how hard he’s struggling to conceal it. He reaches around and finds that Cas’ back is already slick with the oil from the glands at the base of his wings. He wets his palms with it and rakes his fingers through Cas’ feathers, less than gently, and Cas shudders all over. A low, inhuman sound throbs in his throat, something between a growl and a hymn.

“Cas,” Dean says softly, taken aback by the odd sound. “You okay, buddy?”

“I want…” Cas breaks off, breathing heavily. “I want… _Dean_ …”

“Yeah, me too.” Dean strokes the feathers more gently, soothing the angel, letting him know that he’s not freaking out or panicking. Oil is dribbling everywhere, hot and slick, and he chuckles. “But if you don’t want to ruin my Metallica shirt, you better let me take it off.”

Cas makes a slight gesture with one of his hands, and Dean finds his chest is suddenly bare against Cas’. He spares a brief moment to hope that Cas has just stashed the shirt somewhere, not disappeared it entirely—because he’s had that shirt since he was _twenty,_ damn it—but he can’t really worry about it now, not with Cas' chest bare and hot against his own. His thoughts rapidly refract, shattering into fragments and fading to mist, because Cas feels so fucking _good_ against him. 

Cas seems to like the intimacy too. He makes that odd sound again, that rolling, rumbling, strangely melodic noise, deep in his throat, and buries his face against Dean’s throat.

Dean lets himself go to town on the wings, stroking and pulling and caressing. The memory of a dark crypt and terrible, bone-shattering pain still haunts him, but he focuses on the thought of a single feather gleaming like lapis lazuli in a patch of sunlight, deep in the forest, and that helps keeps the fear at bay. Cas cries out, his head arching back, blue wings quivering despite his obviously hard-held control. 

The oil spills down over both of them, pooling between their bodies, until their chests and bellies are slick and hot with it. Dean laughs, breathless.

“There’s a lot more oil than there was last time.”

“Forgive me.” Cas sounds anxious. “I am aware that it is very… inhuman. But my uropygial glands—"

“Your what?”

“My oil glands. My control over them is limited, particularly in this form. Last time I worked very hard to restrain them, but this time I can't seem to...”

“I don’t mind,” Dean says softly. He moves his hand on Cas’ back, groping blindly, and finds one of the glands. He strokes it gently, mindful of the fact that they are extremely sensitive, and Cas gives another of those strange, rumbling sounds, sounding like he’s hidden a pipe organ away in his chest.

“ _Dean._ ”

“That noise you keep making,” Dean whispers, unable to curb his curiosity. “Is that your true voice?”

Last time he heard Cas' true voice, he wound up rolling on the ground in agony, covering his ears, and Cas had explained it was because most humans didn't have the ability to understand angel voices, or even to bear the sound of them. He wonders if maybe he's hung around with Cas so long that he's somehow learned how to tolerate the sound of Cas' true voice. But Cas shakes his head.

“Not… quite.” Cas seems barely able to force out words. Given that Dean is still caressing his oil glands, that’s probably not surprising. “Humans can hear it… though they rarely do… it is… I should not… it is… heretical.. but I can’t seem to… to help it…”

“Tell me,” Dean says, stroking a little harder, “what that sound is.”

“Singing,” Cas says with a gasp. His wings quiver harder, trembling against the morning air. “The Heavenly host… sings… praises to God… and every angel… contributes… shares… in the hymns…”

Dean considers that for a moment, and then chuckles. “So when I make you feel good, you’re singing praises to God, is that it?”

Cas presses his face into Dean’s shoulder again, as if embarrassed. “It is wrong… a heresy…blasphemous…”

“Dude.” Dean strokes the gland a little harder. Oil gushes out, and Cas rumbles again. “It’s just like a human yelling _oh God_ or _Jesus Christ,_ am I right? Don’t worry about it. Everyone’s blasphemous during sex.”

Cas doesn’t lift his head, and Dean can almost feel the blush heating his cheeks. His voice is a low mumble. “This must be… why angelic sex… is frowned upon.”

“Probably.” Most angels are world-class dicks, so Dean doesn’t really care about their opinion on the matter. He doubts Cas really does, either. “But who gives a fuck? You don’t have to answer to the angels anymore. And God left the building a long time ago. _He_ sure as hell doesn’t care. Don’t worry about it, Cas. Sing all you want.”

He keeps touching the little glands, and the wings tremble, then slowly spread to their full width. Fear slithers down Dean’s spine, a cold and unpleasant frisson of terror, but he counters it by pressing his hips up against Cas’. The feel of their erections brushing together, even through several layers of fabric, is enough to scatter his fears like dandelion fluff in the wind. He groans, realizing for the first time that he’s just as turned on as Cas is.

God, he's hard. They're both hard.

Cas seems to get the idea, and runs with it. He shifts slightly, bracing his weight on his forearms, and his hips begin to move, so that their bodies slide together. Their hips thrust with increasing urgency, and need coils inside Dean, taut, demanding, hot. He catches a handful of feathers and tugs hard.

“Cas,” he says desperately. “ _Clothes._ ”

He isn’t at his most articulate, but Cas seems to get what he’s asking for. Their clothes disappear in the wink of an eye, leaving them entirely naked. Cas settles on top of him, hot and slick, hard and muscular, his solid, heavy body pressing Dean into the soft green grass. Dean's eyelids flutter open, but his vision is blurred, and he can't seem to distinguish between the blue sky and the blue wings above him.

Their bodies move hard, their cocks rubbing together urgently, wet with precome and oil, and Dean hears broken words falling from his own mouth— _fuck, Cas, oh fuck, God **yes**_ —at the same time he hears that strange melodic throbbing sound rumbling from Cas’ chest.

They’re both blaspheming, each in their own way.

Dean is perilously close to the edge already, and he suspects Cas is too, judging from the way the enormous wings are beating the air. He can feel the rush of breeze over him every time the wings move, and it ought to scare him, but it doesn’t. He’s floating on a warm rush of endorphins, too transported by physical sensation to feel fear. His body strains for release, and every warm slide against Cas makes his cock pulse harder. 

“Cas.” He tries again for words, even though his mouth is having a hard time forming them. “This isn’t—I mean, this is great—but what I really want is—"

The throbbing sound of angelic hymns cuts off, and Cas raises his head. His blue eyes are dazed, like he’s just as high on the pleasure as Dean is, but there is anxiety in his gaze, too. “Dean,” he says softly. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“Yeah.” Dean looks into his eyes, trying to convey his sincerity. “I want you inside me, Cas.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, this one is finished. This final chapter was hard for me to get right, and I've worked over it for quite a while. It's not all that long, but it was difficult to get the emotions right. I hope I've succeeded, and that you all enjoy it. I'm mulling over the idea of a final story in this series, so stay tuned:-).
> 
> Thank you all for your kind feedback!

Castiel freezes up for a moment, and Dean looks into the wide blue eyes, seeing all the angel’s fears reflected there. In his mind, he hears Cas saying, _I hurt you terribly. I can’t help remembering…_

“It’s okay,” he says softly, trying to reassure the other man. “It’s _okay,_ Cas.”

Cas gives a shudder that rolls through his human body, and then through his wings. He pulls away, causing Dean to whimper involuntarily at the loss of his warm, heavy body, and runs his fingers through the oily moisture on Dean’s stomach. His fingers trail down, very slowly, and Dean lets his thighs part, gives himself over entirely to Cas, just as Cas gave himself to Dean last time. 

He wants to be dominated, controlled. _Overpowered._

Which doesn’t seem to make much sense, considering what’s gone down between the two of them. But maybe it makes plenty of sense, when he really thinks about it. He knows that Cas is a being of immense power, so much stronger than Dean is that he couldn’t possibly defend himself if Cas tried to hurt him again. So for them to move forward from here, he really needs to trust Cas, to believe that Cas would never hurt him voluntarily. He needs to believe that _completely,_ and the only way that’s going to happen is if he can bring himself to allow Cas to take control.

Cas presses a finger against his opening, very gently, and Dean moans, because he needs more. So much more. Cas’ finger, slippery with oil, slides inside him, and Dean gives a soft whimper. Despite his best efforts, his body clenches, resisting the intrusion, and Cas hesitates.

“Please.” Dean isn’t sure if he’s begging for more, or if he’s just begging for Cas to get on with it before he loses his nerve. “Please, Cas, _please…_ ”

Cas moves the finger in shallow thrusts, and Dean groans at the pleasure of it. He’s still pretty new at the guy thing, really. He’s kissed a few pretty boys, even made out and gotten kind of handsy with one. But when he and Cas got together the first time, he was pretty much a guy virgin. He’d fallen into the role of topping pretty easily, both because it was hot as fuck to watch a billion-year-old angel begging, submitting to him, and because the role of being the one who penetrates his sexual partner is what he’s used to. 

But letting another guy top him, penetrate him, dominate him… well, the idea is kind of unsettling all on its own. Throw in the fact that it’s Cas, and he’s definitely a little unnerved.

Okay, scared shitless.

But Cas is moving his finger inside him, in slow, careful thrusts, and it feels really good. Better than you’d expect, really. It’s not like he’s totally new to this—he’s been with several women who knew how to stimulate his prostate well enough to blow the top of his head off, and he plays around with the back door sometimes when he jerks off, just to mix things up a bit. But there’s something about the hesitant, cautious way Cas is doing it that makes him unbearably hard.

Cas is being so damn careful not to hurt him, taking so much care with him. It makes Dean’s eyes mist up. 

Damn it, he’s turning into a _girl._

Cas slides in a second finger, slowly, carefully, and Dean’s hard-on twitches against his stomach, gushing precome. He hears himself sobbing Cas’ name, moaning, begging, _more damn it dude come on I’m dyin’ here,_ but Cas isn’t going to allow himself to be rushed. His fingers stretch Dean deliberately, scissoring and exploring with a gentle thoroughness that’s rapidly driving Dean insane. His fingers are slick and hot with oil, and it feels so damn good, but all Dean can think about is what it’s going to be like when Cas is inside him.

The thought makes his heart skip a beat. He’s still scared, but he’s so damn turned on that he can’t focus on the fear. He can’t focus on anything except the feel of Cas working him open, caressing him from the inside.

Cas adds a third finger, stretching him almost unbearably, and Dean’s hands scrabble for purchase, digging into the grass, clenching it in his fists. He’s totally open to Cas, vulnerable, exposed. Ready to be fucked. 

Cas’ fingers brush lightly across his sweet spot, making precome spill out onto his stomach the way moisture is probably spilling out of Cas’ oil glands, and he utters a helpless sound of pleasure, a long sighing _ahhhhhh,_ because his brain is shorting out and there are no words left, no thoughts, only the pleasure of being finger fucked—no, being _made love to_ \-- and the urgent, driving desire for more.

Cas strokes him, slowly, deliberately, for long moments, while Dean writhes on the grass and groans helplessly. He’s past fear. He’s nothing now but sensation and heat and craving need.

And then Cas withdraws his fingers. Dean feels suddenly empty, bereft, and he forces his eyelids open.

“Cas.” His voice is high-pitched and pitiful, almost a whimper, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Cas… please… _please_ …”

Cas rubs his hand across Dean’s abdomen again. His long eyelashes flutter down, veiling his bright eyes, and he wraps his oily hand around his own cock—which, Dean notices, is pretty damn big—and begins to stroke himself. Dean knows Cas is just making sure he’s all lubed up, but still, the sight of Cas touching himself is incredibly hot. But that’s not what he wants. He wants Cas inside him, not jerking off in front of him.

He wants Cas to take him. 

He wants to be taken.

He whimpers again, a soft, needy sound, and Cas lets go of himself and leans over him. He grasps Dean’s legs, lifts them, and hooks his ankles over his shoulders, spreading Dean wide—and where the hell did an angel of the Lord learn _that?_ —and then he moves his hips, pressing the head of his cock right up against Dean’s tender flesh. 

Curse words spill freely from Dean’s mouth, and that odd, organlike sound thrums from Cas’ chest again. Dean can't quite imagine what the choral music of the heavenly host might sound like, but clearly Cas is in the baritone section. It’s a low, throbbing sound, as much vibration as music, and Dean can feel it right down to his bones.

Cas doesn’t move, just holds their bodies in that position, so close to penetration that Dean could weep with frustration. He can’t do a damn thing in this position, can’t grab Cas by the neck and drag him closer, can’t reach his oil glands, or even his wings, which are held out to the sides, out of reach. He clutches Cas’ hands, which are on his hips, and more swear words fall from his mouth, along with a lot of frantic begging. _I need this, man, I need it now or I’m gonna die, goddamnit, come on, Cas, fuck me, **fuck me…**_

Cas moves, just a bit, and the head of his cock slips into Dean. It feels so big, so intrusive, and yet it’s exactly what he needs-- those taut muscles stretched, those sensitive nerves stimulated, the aching emptiness filled. It burns a little, but in a very good way. He sobs, breathless with pleasure, and his dick pulses against his stomach, spilling out more precome. The scent of sandalwood and vanilla fills the air, and he knows Cas is just as turned on as he is.

“Is… that… all right?”

Cas sounds like he’s struggling to form words, and Dean nods frantically.

“S’good, man—don’t stop— _don’t stop_ —"

Cas slides into him another inch, and they moan in unison. Cas’ wings are fluttering now, rippling as if he’s trying to control them, but failing. Dean wishes he could reach them, plunge his fingers into the blue depths, drive Cas crazy with his touch, but he realizes Cas is probably holding them back on purpose so as not to frighten him.

He’s not scared, though. He’s really not. He wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything, want _Cas,_ and his desperate physical need has completely overpowered his remaining fear.

Cas gives a little thrust, sinking further inside him, and Dean cries out, shuddering with pleasure.

“Yeah… _fuck_ … just like _that_ …”

Cas does it again, and again, sinking further into Dean with each thrust, until he’s balls-deep, buried in Dean right to the hilt. And then he stops again. Dean opens his eyes to see Cas’s head thrown back, his eyes clenched shut, his teeth bared. His dark hair is more rumpled than ever, and his bangs hang, damp and messy, over his forehead. 

He looks so damn human—well, except for the massive wings stretched out on either side of him. The wings are fucking amazing, shimmering blue and silver in the sunlight, quivering with tightly controlled energy. 

Wide-eyed, Dean stares at the angel, _his_ angel, drinking in the sight of him. He thinks that no matter what happens in the future, he will never forget this moment, this precious instant in time when Cas was all his.

Cas draws a shuddering breath, and then he slowly withdraws, almost all the way, and begins thrusting in earnest. Dean cries out, clutching Cas’ hands, as pleasure washes over him with every thrust. Cas must like the sensation too, because his wings move forward, surrounding Dean, gently brushing him with feathers. Unable to stop himself, Dean reaches out with both hands and begins to stroke the enormous wings.

And Cas sings.

The music that rises from his chest is so much more than the low, rumbling sound he was making before, and it doesn't sound blasphemous. It sounds holy. It’s totally inhuman, deep and mellow, impossibly beautiful. There are no words, only melody and harmony somehow created by an ordinary human larynx that ought not to be capable of it, twining together into a lovely, complex whole. It sounds like nothing Dean has ever heard before, more complicated than a symphony, more sacred than a cantata, more emotionally affecting than Led Zeppelin. 

The sound brings tears to Dean’s eyes. Cas, he realizes, is letting him see as much of his true self as he possibly can. The wings, the oil, the music…

Cas is sharing more than sex with him. He’s sharing everything he possibly can, struggling to bridge the vast gulf between human and angel. 

Dean wishes this could last forever, but Cas is thrusting into him, faster and faster, while the song increases in tempo and volume. Dean is overwhelmed, both by the pleasure of being penetrated, and by the song and the wings and—well, by _Cas._ He’s catching a faint glimpse of what Cas truly is, seeing a hint of the angel behind the human mask, and it’s genuinely awe-inspiring.

He's also rapidly losing the ability to think. Cas fills his body as the wings surround him, blotting out the world. The song fills his head and the scent of the oil fills his nostrils.

He’s lost in Cas. 

Cas’ thrusts become harder, faster, more brutal, until Dean is so overwhelmed he can’t seem to draw a breath. His stomach is taut with need, his cock rock-hard, pulsing relentlessly with each thrust, and fire races through his veins with every motion of Cas’ body. In this position, Cas’ cock strokes him inside, precisely where he needs it most, and he’s dripping precome with every hard thrust, sobbing with the pleasure of it. He’s pretty sure he’s going to climax without a touch to his cock, and just the thought of Cas fucking him to completion is almost enough to send him over the edge.

“Cas,” he moans, trying to catch Cas’ hips, to force him move even faster. “Cas, _please_ …”

“No, Dean.” The music cuts off, and Cas catches his arms and pins them down, very gently but very firmly, on the grass, his hands unbreakable manacles on Dean’s wrists. The blue eyes look down at him sternly. “You’ll come when I decide it’s time. Not before.”

A small, icy finger of fear strokes its way down Dean’s spine, but he ignores it easily enough. He’s not really afraid anyway, not any more. Intellectually, he’s known all along that it wasn’t really Cas hurting him that night in the crypt, but now he's pretty sure he’s accepted it emotionally too.

At any rate, he wants very much to submit to Cas. Maybe it’s the huge, awesome wings. Maybe it’s the natural order of things, the weaker human submitting to the powerful angel.

Or maybe he just trusts Cas that much, and wants to make sure they both know it.

He opens his eyes and meets Cas’ gaze, trying to convey to him exactly how much he trusts him, how much he’d do for him, how readily he’d die for him. “Okay,” he says softly. “You’re the boss.”

Cas hesitates for a moment, looking surprised, as if he hadn't really expected Dean to grant him so much power, to trust him so freely. Then he begins moving again, slowly and deliberately, still holding Dean beneath him, helpless, motionless. The Heavenly music begins to rise again, and Cas thrusts steadily into Dean for long moments, until heat flows through Dean in a never-ending current, making him tremble.

“Cas,” he grates out at last. “Please. Let me… let me touch your wings.”

Cas releases his wrists, and he lifts his hands, burying them in Cas’ wings and holding on, none too gently. The wings wrap around him, and the music soars, and it’s all so beautiful his chest aches. This might not be a real place or a real time, but goddamnit, he wishes he could stay with Cas forever. Here, or anywhere.

At the feel of Dean's hands clutching his wings, Cas seems to lose the last remnants of his self-control. He thrusts hard, giving Dean everything he craves, everything he needs. Dean cries out as his orgasm hits him with tremendous force. His cock jerks violently, spurting come all over his belly, and it’s so good, so hot, so intense. He hangs onto the wings more tightly than before, as if he can somehow bind Cas to him forever, and the song rolls over him, glorious, beautiful, as the wings wrap around him more tightly, and Cas’ body stutters inside him. 

Golden light brushes over him, just like last time, and his climax intensifies, the pleasure growing inside him until he can’t bear it.

The last thing he hears before the darkness claims him is the sound of Cas’ angelic singing.

*****

When Dean awakens, it’s dark, and there’s a comfortable softness beneath him that's very different from the slight itchiness of fragrant meadow grass. He rolls over with a groan, aware of a certain soreness in his ass muscles, and stares around wildly, trying to figure out where the hell he is.

His eyes fall on numbers glowing in the darkness, and even through his sleep-blurred vision he can see that they read _4:52 a.m._ He's in his hotel room, back where he started. He remembers Cas’ voice, trying to explain the concept of a “extratemporal, noncorporeal projection.”

 _Not a place. Not a time, either._

Wherever he’d just been with Cas, it wasn’t real. 

And yet what the two of them did together, what they _felt_ together, was very real.

"Cas," he whispers into the darkness. There's no answer, but then, he didn't expect one. Cas is still on the lam, trying to keep the precious tablet hidden from the angels, and Dean doesn't know when he'll see him again, or even _if_ he'll see him again. He knows as well as anyone that the heavenly host aren't safe to fuck around with. If they ever catch up to Cas, there's every chance they'll rip him to shreds.

But Cas is smart. He's a warrior, with millennia of fighting experience behind him. He threw off Naomi's mind control, and figured out a safe place to hide. If anyone can keep one step ahead of the horde of heavenly dickbags, it's him.

Even so, Dean's worried about him. But he knows there's not a damn thing he can do to help him. This is Cas' fight, not his.

He sighs, looking around at the empty room. It seems very dark after all that sunshine, and very lonely. Cas evidently used his mojo to clean him off, but he left the soreness behind, probably so Dean would know it hadn’t all been a dream. He's glad to have physical proof it was real. It's a memory he can hang onto for the rest of his life, no matter what might happen.

He feels goosebumps popping up on his skin, and reaches for the blanket. As he does so, he realizes there's something in his hand. He blinks at it in the near-darkness, and sees that it's a feather. Even in the dim light he can see the gleaming silver tip. It's just like the feather he found in the woods, the feather that saved him and Sammy, all those years ago.

Warmth fills him. He shuts his eyes, clutching the feather tightly, and lets the darkness take him back into its embrace. And when he sleeps, he dreams of Cas' wings, just as he always does.

But this time, the dream makes him smile.


End file.
